


Domestic Fireball

by optimouse



Series: Stiltskin 'Verse [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Chicago (City), Dementia, Gen, Paranormal, Police, Wellness Check
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 17:25:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14773965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/optimouse/pseuds/optimouse
Summary: Detective Stregazza and the Department Psychologist make a wellness check. Things go wrong. Then they go right. Stregazza would really rather not have to duck fireballs, and would really like it if Gorka would stop laughing at him.





	Domestic Fireball

“You’re insane!” The octopus of fire that had been slung across the air above Julius’ Head was a great reason for the detective’s constant stream of cursing.

 

Frankly, “Stregazza, DUCK!” I agreed. My shields did jack shit against napalm, and this was one pissed off Mage. This was a courtesy call, a Mage lending credence to the police trying to convey a neighbor’s complaints. “I did not sign up for this!”

 

“Gorka, you said that his family was not violent!” This was what we both got for agreeing to do this for the Captain instead of a pair of uniforms on a domestic call.

 

“I said no such thing.” Another fireball volleyed over the top of the detective’s car. “What I said was that they were nonaggressive. Stregazza, there’s a big difference. Like the difference between a therapist and a meatball!” Which was what we would be if… I reached out and grabbed him, dragging him behind the car as a fifth or sixth stream of fire shot over our heads. “I’m sorry about your car.”

 

The roof of the car was smoking, and I could see the rivulets forming inches from my nose behind the glass window. ICK. Melting plastic stunk. “So what do you think, as a therapist?”

 

“I think that the complaints that the neighbors had against Mr. Creal were valid. I also think that Mr. Creal is losing a battle with dementia. He will calm down, and then you can call for backup.” The furor was already dying done, and a door had slammed.

 

Stregazza was now standing up, dusting off his pre-divorce era suit. The neat pinstripes were singed, but he resolutely pulled the jacket on. My detective hid his gun and badge.

 

“Follow my lead.” His arm went under my armpit, lifting me up, and he left his arm under mine in support. “We’ll go right by your cane, pick it up from where you dropped it. You were really booking it.”

 

“Have you ever seen the end results of catching a fireball?” I did not like the way the skin split in that roasted reality. “There are many better ways to die.”

 

“I know.” We reached the door, and Julius knocked. “Mr. Creal? This is Doctor Gorka, and I’m Julius Stregazza. Your neighbors were worried about you. May we come in?”

 

The bird-boned man’s thatch of snowy hair nodded, and he spoke with a flute like voice. “From the Department of Social Services? I’m fine, though I may be running low on groceries. Would you like to share tea?”

 

Two minutes ago, he was firing fireballs off at The Man, now he’s smiling at us and having us for tea? “Am I the only sane one here?”


End file.
